HENRY SAUTER

Simon Kester's faded blue eyes followed Dr. Halon's puffy hands as they removed the sensors from his wrists, ankles, and major nerve centers. Wires from the sensors led to a wall-enclosed diagnostic computer. Halon let the wires retract, leaving only the sensors neatly aligned, ready for the next patient.
"Medicine is now on a par with industry," Halon said while he waited for the quietly chuckling machine to produce the customary thick sheaf of papers. "The auto industry really started it—with comparatively simple testers to locate engine troubles. The advance in electro-chemistry-biology has enabled the medical profession to develop this complete physical analysis machine."
"Seems to me, Industry's still ahead—in the spare-parts line." Simon's voice was harsh. He sat up, donned his tunic.
The doctor flushed, "Births still exceed the death rate. And only from the dead or dying can we get organs, or 'spare parts,' in your words. For every heart, or set of lungs, or arm available, there're two dozen real or fancied emergencies demanding the 'part'. It takes a long time to grow people, and longer until their organs become available for transplant."
"Hear tell there're ways to get parts, you got the money." Simon stood up, still tall but beginning to bend with the years. Bony hands buckled on his harness complete with dagger and shortsword; the banning of firearms in Kester's infancy had brought about the revival of cold steel for personal protection. '"Also, hear this . . . Stroud, that his name? . . . can grow new parts from old, without waiting for a death."
"Let's talk this over in the office." Halon jerked the sheets of graphs and data from the mouth of the now-quiet computer.
Simon followed, noting the typical pear-shape of the desk man; the unsteady walk. There was a something about Halon, and his shakiness. Could be nerves; when Simon had first entered the office there was a slight lingering smell of exotic perfume. Simon wondered who was behind the door set into the paneling on the right wall.
"Vintage '94, from what was California. Not the best year, but a high alcohol content." Halon handed a glass from the autobar to Simon, took one for himself. "Go ahead, Simon, relax a bit." Halon gulped his wine, poured another glass, sat down to the report.
Simon sipped his drink appreciatively, savoring the mellow-sharp taste. He watched Halon; the shakiness, Simon noted, was leaving the doctor, now. Simon had looked long for a doctor; Halon had seemed the man, but it began to appear the doctor enjoyed the good things of life a bit too much. Simon smacked his lips over another sip of wine, glanced again at the door.
"This place is spy-ray proof; besides, nothing goes out of here." Halon looked up from the report, dialed another glass.
Simon shook his head; his glass was still half full.
"Simon, you've somewhere between six weeks and six months to live."
"That short?" Simon had expected something of the sort; but in the face of the reality he handed his glass forward for a refill. "Doctor, granted I'm ninety-four; but I've never had a transplant, never spent a day in the hospital. At my age, I don't have to wear weapons but I've yet to see a man walk away from a challenge to me." Simon gulped down the wine; already he was beginning to feel the effects; he knew he was talking too much.
"Simon," Halon regarded him narrowly, "ever read 'The One Horse Shay?, I think that's the title."
"The . . . poem, isn't it? Probably way back when, in school. Don't go much for poetry."
"Well, it is about a shay—buggy that was so well constructed no one part was stronger than another. Came the day, though, when it fell apart—all at once. You're like that buggy. When you go, it'll be all at once. No new heart will do the job, or liver—you need the whole works. You need a complete, live body."
"A whole body?" Simon almost whispered the words. Why, a heart, or a hand, alone, would put the ordinary citizen into debt for years. A whole body. Even if obtainable he doubted he had that much money, frugal as he had been all his life.
"While you're thinking, forget Stroud. I doubt he can do as you said—if he could, we of the medical profession would have known of it. And if he can, the Guild will soon put him out of business. They make too much out of spare parts."
Simon knew of the Rocky Mountain Spare Parts Guild; an organization that had grown wealthy and powerful enough so that its openly-hired heavys were engaging in duels, with the Guild using the slain bodies as sources of parts. Maybe ...
Halon seemed to read his thoughts: "Take my advice and don't get mixed up with the Guild. I did, just once. With Guildmaster Levitt. Took me two years to pay him off—almost lost my Medic standing a few times, over some of his deals.
"Simon, you're physically capable and mentally sharp. Just bring me a nice, young body. I'll do the rest. Brain transplant is one of the easiest; though, naturally, it isn't talked about and not even publicly known."
"What's your price?" Simon knew Halon had him hooked.
"Just bring along another body, for me." Halon laughed at the look on Simon's face. The liquor had brought back the doctor's humor. "I'm tired of this hulk, Simon." He patted his paunch. "Besides, it can't last much longer under the treatment I give it."
Simon believed that; he had seen the effect of the liquor. Coupled with the perfume, Simon made a downward revision of his earlier estimate of Halon's age.
"And when you get the two, just come here. But remember, Simon, they have to be young—and alive." Halon paused, studied Simon. "It's a deal?"
"Well, two seems .....Simon trailed off.
"Six weeks to six months. Personally, I'd say closer to six weeks." 
"Deal." The words were reluctant. Simon felt he might know how to get one, but to bring two—at one time . . .
Halon stood up, extending his hand, breaking into Simon's train of thought: "My usual office fee." Halon named a figure.
Grumbling under his breath, Simon paid. Then he straightened his tunic, loosed his shortsword in its sheath, and walked out into the street.
Bright sun slashed through the thin mountain air. Simon stood for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the glare after the cool light of the office. At this upper level of the city, the doctor's office was in a restricted-by-wealth area; here, there were even sidewalks that did not move. Overhead the stream of varied-level air traffic flowed constantly, seemingly in a bewildering crisscrossing of flights but in reality rigidly restricted to course, altitude, and speed. From habit, Simon glanced around. The walks were free of pedestrians; no moving vehicles on the street. The freedom from the seething crowds, as well as Halon's dubious reputation, had made Simon seek out the doctor. Here, too, he could park his heli on the blacktop of this upper level; not on some crowded roof-deck. The openness and the wealth of the area made it reasonably safe for a man alone.
Not that any armed man was truly safe. The Guild—and the free-lancers tolerated because their prey could be bought cheaply by the Guild and sold dearly—had heavys constantly on the prowl to challenge. Alone or in pairs they were picked swordsmen, deadly; and, having dispatched their quarry, would have the body picked up immediately by one of the ever-cruising Guild ships. Eventually, the body would be sold piecemeal to a population demanding more and more transplants. Briefly, the thought of finding a victim in the teeming throngs on the levels below crossed Simon's mind; then he dismissed it.
Simon would be of no value—not as parts—and the only problem was that, should he meet Guild heavys, the killers would not know that. In spite of his years, his appearance was that of a man past the prime but with several decades left. One or two swordsmen, he minded not; but in this isolated spot he did not care to run into a hunting party. So he hurried toward the parking lot, and his heli. Abruptly, he stopped at the lot entrance.
On the ground, a ways from his copter, lay a heavy; dead, from the slackness of the body. Two heavys masked had a man backed against Simon's copter; evidently, the man had slain one, and was holding the others at bay. Simon stepped back, wanting no part of this just as the heavys drew back, revealing the defender. Instantly, Simon drew his shortsword, raced silently toward the group, holding a finger to his lips to caution the slim, dark-haired youth with bloodied sword. The thought had flashed across his mind that this might be the beginning again; with it, he acted. At the last moment his foot dislodged a chip from the sun-warmed asphalt; the slight sound of its skittering across the blacktop caused the nearer of the two heavys to whirl, sword point raised.
Steel met steel; Simon noted no blood on the other's sword. At the first exchange, Simon was disappointed in his opponent. The heavy was good; he knew all the tricks; and the daggered left hand was a constant threat. But the heavy had not been born with lightning reflexes, nor had fourscore years experience at the game, in the bargain. Simon parried easily on the defensive, while he watched the youth, now definitely on the attack. The boy—he was hardly more than that—was fast; almost as fast as Simon. What he lacked in the polish and skill, that comes from a lifetime of the deadly game, he made up in speed. His sword glinted brightly in the sun, raining blows interspersed with thrusts, keeping the trained heavy on the defensive, driving the killer back.
Abruptly Simon had seen enough; concentrated on his man. He parried skillfully, lunged, and shifted to the offensive. In the abrupt switch the heavy recognized the change. Simon could read the man's foreknowledge of death on the other's face. Simon feinted, leaving himself apparently wide open. As the heavy struck, Simon was aside, then in, with sword-point moving upward through stomach, lungs, and into beating heart. As quickly as he had driven the blade home, Simon freed it from the falling body and turned with dripping steel to the other pair.
The boy struck and slashed, great overhand blows that sparked against the heavy's hard-put blade; then, cat-quick, the boy shifted his attack. He lunged, buried his point full in the chest of his opponent. The man's upraised blade hung motionless momentarily, then dropped to the ground as its erstwhile wielder crumpled. Simon bent, wiped his blade on the fallen tunic, sheathed his sword.
"Move it, fast!" A glance around, then upward; a squat, heavy copter without insignia, or marking, was drifting down through the traffic pattern, growing larger momentarily. Without an instant of hesitation, Simon tumbled the youth through the door that, keyed to Kester's body-pattern, opened at his presence. Simon leaped in, threw the switch, and shoved the heli upward without the customary warm-up; played with the throttle as the cold engines balked, then settled down to a steady hum. He flipped the view-screen on, gestured at the large copter settling down in the parking lot they had just left.
"Don't waste time," he muttered as, with the heavys loaded, the ship lifted.
"After us?" Blue eyes under dark brows questioned.
"Yep. Have trouble shaking them, too; they've got the motor and the range on us. We've got a quicker getaway, though; and if worst comes to worst, a couple of surprises, back there." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. Where in a normal craft would have been a seating area, a bulkhead left just room for the two dash seats. Simon threaded his way from level to level, shifting directions with each change to match the flight of planes that were thick as migrating geese.
"What's your name?"
"Lars." Evidently the boy was as chary of words as he was agile of foot.
"Simon. Simon Kester." No harm in giving his name, Simon thought grimly. "How old are you?" Behind them, and below, the unmarked ship inexorably threaded their shifting course. Simon won to the highspeed lane, hurtling south and west over the Colorado Springs-Denver-Cheyenne city complex that spread west from almost-timberline on the front range to what had once been the Colorado-Kansas line.
"Fifteen."
"Sort of young to be wearing steel."
"Not so young!" Lars flared. "So maybe I can't vote for a year—I had one of them done before you came, and would have done the others, too!" Simon tried to place the accent; it wasn't of the City.
"Normally the Guild won't fight the unfranchised. Long as you wear steel, though, they'll figure you're old enough."
"Yorkopolis, you wear it or wind up in a freezer." So the youth came from the sprawling inter-linked eastern network of cities; a stranger here. It would be hard to trace him. As for the weapons, Simon thought, Lars was right. What few police there were were kept busy in traffic regulation and attempted to enforce the, no-firearms law. It was every man for himself, in what proudly claimed to be a highly technological and also cultured society.
Simon studied the viewer. The Guild copter was gaining slightly. He studied the nearing shape, finally determining the probable type of armament it carried. Undoubtedly heavy enough to fight off a couple of police cruisers, if need be. Simon put his craft on a down-glide, poured on full power. By now, they were well over the mountains of the Central Rockies, but still within the limits of the city-state. He aimed for a deep canyon between two peaks, piloting breakneck just above the tops of the pines, the crags on either side jutting high above toward the clear brilliance of an afternoon mountain sky. Behind came the hunter, higher now and gaining enough to soon be above them. Simon flipped a switch.
"They've got us, down here." Lars's voice was flat, devoid of emotion. The Guild ship was almost directly above, anticipating their twisting course. From the higher elevation the other pilot could see the canyon ahead, know what the fleeing craft's next moves had to be to keep from crashing into the mountainside. And for a mile ahead, there was no room for side-maneuvering.
"Look straight ahead—see anything?"
"Seems a little hazy," Lars said. "Now—it's gone."
"Not haze." Simon answered. A stream of tracers poured from the Guild ship, to spray and corruscate like molten metal of a hearth from the force field Simon had activated. For what was seconds, but seemed hours, generators whined to keep the field constant against the impact of the 20-mm's; then the spilling of tracers abruptly stopped. Simon flicked the switch off.
"Now, it's my turn," he grunted. "Force field off—here goes!" He pressed a firing-stud. A red lance of rocket laced upward from Simon's copter; slowly at first, then gaining speed, it arced toward the Guild ship. Simon flipped the force field on; the haze built up, vanished. He poured power to the engine. The little ship literally shot down the canyon as the Guild ship sought to evade the seeker-missile.
"We're too close," he gritted, knuckles white on the controls. "Got to get around that turn, get the hill between us and—"
The explosion balled fire in the sky where the Guild ship had been. The shock wave hit the copter, just short of the shielding hill; tossed it as a fall leaf in October gale, down into the valley. Lars caught the seat for a moment, then was torn loose, slammed against a wall. Simon managed to hang onto the controls a moment longer. The ship smashed into the pines, plowing a giant furrow through the green. Battered and broken, the ship lay half-buried in the hillside while the mighty explosion dwindled away in fading echoes among the mountain peaks.
Idly, Cain envied the fur on hi; pair of hunting cheetahs, for the wind blew chill through the valley The piled snow glinting high in the sun on the peaks noted the foretaste of winter, though the grass in this particular high meadow had not yet been frost-touched. Ahead, the man who had dropped from the now gone chopper was working up a slick slope, scrambling and slipping as foot slid on a loose rock or a pine cone. City type, thought Cain; first time in the mountains, probably. With a gliding movement Cain drew backwards, out of sight of the laboring stranger, and with a soundless command to the cheetahs began a steady trot to the ridge line. The shortsword belted about his tunic moved smoothly with the rhythm of his stride, not slapping as with the ordinary runner. Ghosting along in the cover of scrub and pine came the cats.
Shaded by the ponderosa and blended into the scanty brush Cain listened to the sounds of the climber. An occasional profane ejaculation; the heavy panting of a man not used to the thin air of the high country. Then the heavily-clothed man made his way to the comparative level of the ridge and sank to the ground, breath rasping in his throat. He was loaded with a heavy pack; slung with binoculars, shortsword, and a radio. Across his shoulder was a rifle.
A rifle. Cain reconsidered. Even with his speed, he would have to be careful—he watched as the man shrugged out of the pack and carelessly tossed the rifle on it, to begin working with the radio. Or maybe not so careful; the man had the looks of a heavy. As such, he would not be too used to the rifle; he would go for his sword in a surprise encounter, out of habit. Motionless as the stony outcropping of the mountain itself, Cain listened.
"Silver from Indigo. Silver from Indigo."
"Indigo, this is Silver. Go ahead." Cain's ears picked up the faint answer from the receiver.
"In position. Any further instructions?"
"Indigo from Silver. Will return for you in two days, unless you find business for us. Silver out."
The man shoved the rifle off his pack, opened the straps, and slipped the radio inside. He straightened, began a slow, circular look of the area. Cain began a silent movement. To the west, the heavy scanned the snowcapped peaks, gleaming white in contrast to the blue dark beneath. North and east, at a lower level and hazed with distance, lay the metropolis; an occasional glint from sun on Metal showing through the pall of smog that ballooned to the horizon. He swung east, toward the crest of the hill, and stared into the face of Cain, only a few feet away. Immobile in the underbrush, the cheetahs flanked Cain, blending into the spotty patches of sun and shade. For a moment the heavy froze; then clawed his sword from its sheath, dropped into the fighter's crouch. Cain waited, barehanded, until the sword flicked at him like a glinting serpent in the sun, then moved under the lunge, caught the heavy, and hurled him into the brush. Two silent streaks moved as one; a short, choked scream; and only occasionally did a sound of tearing flesh rise above the whisper of wind in the ponderosa.
Cain was at the pack almost before the heavy hit the ground. He surveyed the contents: rations, radio, sleeping bag, and spy-ray. For a moment he was tempted to experiment with the spy-ray; then he carefully closed the pack, to leave it as it had been dropped. He wanted no sign of his presence; with frost quite probable any night two days would erase any latent prints of his having been on the scene.
All that would remain would be the torn body of the heavy.
As he stood up, the cats slouched out of the brush. A quick glance at red-tinged muzzles and Cain knew the job was done. He verified this while the cats did a quick cleanup; then the trio moved silently out of the area, down-slope, and to the laboratory-cavern of Dr. Stroud.
Cain and the cheetahs threaded their way through the laboratory to the workroom in the rear of the cavern refuge. His senses told him Stroud would be there; together with the more-than-animals he stood for a moment and watched the elderly doctor busy at the electronics bench. One of the cats padded forward; Stroud looked up.
"You're back." A welcome was in the doctor's voice for the man he had rebuilt from a few assorted bits of flesh. Yet there was a sadness that he had built Cain apart from the human race. In the rebuilding Stroud had bettered Cain, physically; yet he could not add the spark, the soul, of the true human.
"Doctor, there has been two spy-probes in the last two days." Cain's voice was even, devoid of emotion."On the second probe—today—the copter dropped a man and a spy device in the canyon, to the south." One of the cheetahs rubbed against Stroud; they, too, were products of his rebuild-and-change genius. Retaining the speed and skill of the cheetah, yet they had the size and staying power of the wolf hound. The ancients had used cheetahs in war; Stroud had found his easy to train and highly efficient guards. He stroked the shoulder of the cat, abruptly drew away his hand.
"Blood?" He showed Cain a spot of red wetness on his palm, coagulating to brown. Cain nodded; looked at the cheetahs. For a moment they both met his icy gaze with slitted yellow eyes, then obediently began a thorough washup.
"The visitor was taken care of," said Cain dismissing the incident. "I am certain the probes did not discover anything; our shield was not penetrated." Cain referred to the shielding of the cavern that served Stroud for a laboratory and a home. A force field would bounce back a spy-probe, and be a dead giveaway. Stroud, rather than use a force field, had begun with the principle that every material gives off its own peculiar radiation. From this basic principle, he had produced a radiation camouflage that, under the most intense instrument survey, would appear to be a solid mountain; no indication of the giant cavern or its entrance. The only fear was that somewhere there might exist a record of this cave, and that the wrong someone would find the record. With the gradual withdrawal of the mountain dwellers to the city on the false theory of safety in numbers, this seemed a remote possibility. In any event, it would have to be faced when it occurred.
"The last two days." Stroud strummed his fingers on the bench, thoughtfully. "And Lars is two days overdue. Any connection, do you think?"
"Possibly—but improbable. Many things could delay Lars. I think Levitt is looking for you. Or, he could be on a random sweep of the area on the chance of finding victims for his parts-bank. I'm leaving now to check on Lars; I should be back before the copter comes to pick up our erstwhile visitor, in two days. Which reminds me—don't feed the cheetahs; they're full."
"You let them . . ." Stroud looked at the blood now-dark on his palm, wiped it off with hard, short motions.
"Had to leave a valid reason for his death. He was a heavy; would have killed either of us without a thought."
"Death—always death—when I try to give life." Stroud shook his head, weariness in his tone.
"Man is man's worst enemy—except for Cain." Cain turned toward the door.
"Wait." Stroud handed Cain a small pouch-shaped package. "Try this on. You can't take the cheetahs into town, but this might come in handy. Put it on your belt and flick the lever." Cain did so. Momentarily a slight haze formed, to shimmer and disappear. Stroud picked up a small block of metal, tossed it at Cain. It arced through the air, then inches from the big man's form bounced as from a wall, fell to the floor. Stroud picked it up, hurled it harder; the third time he threw it with all his strength.
"It works!" Stroud was jubilant. Cain pointed to his ears, shook his head. Stroud tapped his own sword. Cain drew his shortsword, thrust at the rock of the cavern wall; struck again, harder. This time a slight crazing of the rock showed ground powder falling to the floor. Curious, one of the cheetahs glided over to Cain, recoiled as his nose hit the force field. The cat pawed, sniffed; then, curiosity satisfied, went back to cleaning his coat.
"Air gets a little stale in there." Cain flicked the field off. "The field seems to 'round' the edge of a sword. If I took a deep breath before turning it on, though. I could stay active from five to eight minutes; longer by a factor of seven if I were quiet and slowed my metabolic rate." He stared thoughtfully at the packet. "How long will this sustain a field?"
"At least an hour. As for air—a simple renewal kit would do the trick."
"Design one into a complete unit. For now, this will serve; I'll take it. I just might need a little more help." 
"Any particular plans?"
"Check at the port for Lars—or news of him. And I have to see Levitt. I must let the Guild know I no longer do their work." Cain settled the pouch on his belt, checked his shortsword and dagger, and walked with Stroud into the laboratory. The vast cavern was filled with aquarium-like tanks, each connected simply to the complex machinery in the metal bases with a few tubes and wires. Stroud stopped at one, containing a pair of hands. Small hands; those of a child.
"Remember Lars's little nephew—the night in the gully?" Cain nodded; an ambush, initially foiled by Stroud, had saved the man, woman, and child who were seeking Stroud's aid. Cain had arrived in time to prevent the capture of the entire group by the Guild. And that night Cain had decided to sever his connection with the Guild and work with Stroud.
"Well, he'll grow up with only memories of the stumps he now has—when we make the graft, next month." Stroud was quietly pleased. The doctor had taken cells from the infant's arms, and grown complete, new hands. Without waiting for another child to die; or, as was becoming increasingly common, to be murdered.
"That is why Lars is coming. To work with you."
"With us."
"No, you," Cain corrected him. "Iam Cain—with all the dark connotations from antiquity in my name and my work. Death is my realm—not life. I could no more pursue a complex, long-time study such as your work than could the cheetahs. You, who changed me while giving me life, should know. I serve in my way. Lars, Lars can take your side and eventually your place. He, too, will need the assistance I can give. So now—to find Lars. Also, perhaps, work as fits my name."
Cain made his way directly to the desk of the line on which Lars was scheduled to arrive. The sallow clerk behind the counter briefly thumbed through his manifest list, affirmed Lars's arrival.
"Did you notice if he was met?"
"All I know, papers say he got here." The clerk made a gesture, looking beyond Cain. Cain half-turned, instinctively picked out the two heavys from the milling concourse crowd. They headed for the desk.
"Having trouble?" One asked the clerk. Studiously, they both avoided looking at Cain.
"This gentleman seems to be curious." The clerk nodded at Cain. So far, thought Cain, all was within the code; nothing had been said that could lead to challenge and duel. He recognized one of the heavys, thought quickly. The two turned toward Cain. The eyes of the one widened slightly; recognition was mutual.
"Guildsman Cain!" Abruptly, the heavy swung back to the clerk. He reached across the counter, grabbed the clerk by the tunic, and jerked him halfway out of his cubicle. "Now, talk! If Cain wants answers, give!"
"Wh . . . what do you want to know?” If possible, the clerk's face was grayer than before. The clerk had his tunic pulled tight around his chest; all he could do was strain for breath and look straight ahead.
"How was he dressed?"
"Green tunic . . . gold-brown harness . .. shortsword and dagger." 
"How do you remember?"
"One so young . . . to be armed." 
Cain sensed truth in the words. "Was he met?"
"No. But after he checked in, he was followed—I think." The clerk straightened his tunic; the heavy, getting cooperation, had dropped him. The clerk pointed. "He went across the main concourse—out that door—followed by an armed man, dark, tall. Silver-gray tunic."
"Anything else?"
"Might ask one of the porters at that door if he took a cab. Don't pay too much, or you'll get a story to match your money." He looked curiously at Cain. "Say, who are you, anyway?"
"Call me Cain." Cain turned to the heavys. "I am in your debt for the time. Tell Guildmaster Levitt I will see him—perhaps today, perhaps tomorrow. Tell me—the silver tunics. Have any of the Guilds changed to silver?"
`There's a freelance outfit, taking to silver," the heavy answered. "Levitt Beals with them—sometimes. They operate from here, and are growing." The heavy thought a moment. "The two of us are assigned here to the line, but could we obtain any help?"
"Borland—you're Borland. Won the Games last year." Cain thought of the use to which this man could be put, shoving down the animal instincts that told him to get back to his flier and out of the City. Borland was a great swordsman, and of all Levitt's heavys the only one Cain felt was out of place. He noted Borland's pleasure at the recognition. "When I see Levitt, I hope you are there."
"I'll be there." As Cain turned into the milling crowd Borland turned to the clerk.
" 'Who are you, anyway?' " Borland mimicked. "That was Cain. Remember him. If I hadn't recognized him, it would be the blood of all three of us on the floor being cleaned up, now. 'Cain' fits him rightly. All the death in the world is wrapped up in that man."
By dint of judicious bribing, Cain found a direction, even though his informant was nervously glancing around and talked in a low voice. Cain took the moving-walk, not waiting for it to carry him, but working his way around the passengers as he moved catlike to hurry his chase. There was a nagging sense of danger in his mind; a feeling that something was not quite right. Full danger sense came as two men crossed his path. One purposely shouldered into Cain, cursed; in a moment there was a cleared area around the three. Cain noted the silver tunics. These must be free-lancers. Had the porter put them on his trail? Without wasting time the profane heavy went for his sword; the other stood back, watching narrowly.
Cain waited until the other's weapon was clear of sheath, then his own sword seemed to flow into his hand. Without moving from his loose stance he parried the thrust, beat the steel aside, and slid his point into the throat of the silver-tuniced killer. Before the man had crumpled to the walk Cain whirled, faced the second.
"Do you take his part?" Only after Cain's words, did gasps and murmurs-come from the crowd, the affair had ended so suddenly.
The heavy glanced from his fallen companion to the blood-dripping point of Cain's steel. "No. It . . . it was his own affair."
"You lie. You were sent to kill me." Flat statement; the crowd fell silent. Silver-tunic's face whitened; hand gripped hard on his sword hilt, but he fell back a pace. Cain considered. He would have to kill the man, but first he had to make him talk.
"Not as easy as a young boy, am I?" Cain taunted.
"I'd nothing to do with that." The other was sullen.
"Where is he?"
"I don't know—he got away in a flier, southwest, last I heard." The man spoke reluctantly, eyes on Cain's sword point.
"I think you lie." Cain had his information; Lars was alive. And Cain couldn't let word of his knowledge be carried back. The direct statement should have produced a reaction; Cain went the final step. "I challenge you."
The heavy looked desperately around, for some sign from the crowd, but met only the cold glances and sneers given to cowards. Cain shrugged, relaxed, lowered his sword and half-turned to glance down at the fallen man. In that-instant the silver-tuniced free-lancer leaped, dagger out, full at Cain. Cain had given the opportunity; the heavy took the bait. Cain met the leap with a cat-twist, bringing his sword point up as he moved his shoulder under outstretched dagger, driving his blade upward through stomach and lungs. Freeing his blade, he stooped and wiped the blood from his steel on the tunic of the coward.
"If anyone cares to obtain the authorities, I donate these two bodies to the public." A ripple of approval ran through the crowd. An elderly med-tech pushed to the front, nodded to Cain. Cain turned and left through the lane that magically opened for him in the crowd.

"Been expecting you, Cain." Sam Levitt stared from under bushy brows when Cain entered the long conference room and paused as the door slid shut behind him. To either side of Levitt, leaning against the real-wood walls were four heavys; Borland, studiously paring his nails with a dagger, among them. The room smelled of danger. Borland's attitude confirmed it. Levitt flipped a switch; a haze showed momentarily between Levitt and Cain, then the force-field trap was full on, clear. He knew from the past that the field blocked the door; there was no turning back. A pressurized hissing, almost inaudible: gas! Cain glanced down at the thick pile of the rug. It would hide the thin gap the force field would make between his body and the floor. Good he had brought it along and that Stroud had developed it in time. Slowly, he turned. With his back to Levitt, he flicked the field on, then completed his turn as if, having surveyed the trap, he wished to face Levitt.
It all depended on timing now. The field he was in would not let the gas through. As the extra-wide spectrum band of his eyes picked up the tendrils of gas, floating in the air, filling the space around him, he slowly sank to his knees, fell full-length on the floor. Cain turned his head slightly, to watch through slitted eyes for the approach of feet when Levitt would lift the force field.
Levitt must know or suspect that Cain no longer was of the Guild. Well, it would be all-out war, now; started by Levitt, when Cain had come in peace. Within the force field, Cain could not hear the soft sighing as the pumps removed the gas. After a long ten minutes by heartbeat count, a foot moved into view. How many would join it, he neither knew nor cared. In one motion he flipped off the force field and exploded to his feet, sword and dagger drawn.
Momentarily frozen in front of him were two heavys, carrying chains. Behind them, around Levitt, were six more. Mercilessly, as Levitt's hand reached again for the switch, Cain's sword found the heart of one heavy while the dagger in his left hand buried itself in the other's stomach. As he withdrew his sword, the chains fell from the heavys' dead hands, tearing the pouch from Cain's belt. Air was beginning to haze: Levitt had started the force field! Cain lunged for the barrier with all his strength, slowing, drawn almost to a halt by the building resistance of the field. And the heavys by Levitt began drawing swords, fanning out toward him.
The sound of the explosion high in the air died away; echoes from the hills finally falling silent. Only the wind sang gently through the branches of the pines above the fallen copter. Inside, Simon stirred, tried to raise his head, fell back again against the slanted wall of the cabin. He tried again, carefully. Crumpled against the back bulkhead Lars moved slightly. Simon gingerly found his way to his feet, noted the movement in Lars. For himself, bruised only; no bones broken. The boy, though—
"Rough landing," Lars raised slightly, voice shaky. "What happened?"
"Caught in the shock wave." Simon helped him up. "All right?"
"Better by the second." Lars moved carefully. "Only battered. Where do we go from here?"
"Not far. We'll have to blow this job; can't have the Patrol find a weaponed craft here, close to home. Might come around, ask embarrassing questions." Simon flicked off the still-active force field, waited for the ship to settle to the ground, then pinpointed his location from the surrounding peaks. He opened a door in the bulkhead and disappeared. A few moments later he came out, hustled Lars through the door to drop to the ground. Simon checked his watch.
"About twenty minutes—and under good conditions, we can get around the hill up there before that. Follow me—hurry!" Simon set a quick pace on the upgrade of the valley, working on a slant through the underbrush. He had to be around the outthrust of mountain he had termed a hill before the atomics obtained the critical mass necessary to blow. He had removed the dampers sufficiently to allow somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty minutes; the hill ahead would give protection from the shock wave.
"Clear," Simon gasped, breath rasping in his throat. They had rounded the hill and were protected by the mountains. He looked at Lars, who was breathing hard.
"Altitude," Simon told him. "We're about eight thousand feet—air's pretty thin."
"Not used to it." Lars gasped. "Yorkopolis . . . almost . . . sea level."
Then the explosion was mind-filling, and the wave passing through the valley whipped and tore at them with its side effects. Simon got to his feet even while trees were still falling in the force of the blast. The hunter ship exploding might not be noticed; the second, his own ship, was sure to be checked by the Forest Patrol. In two hours of reasonable going they could be at his hideout, some five miles away and fifteen hundred feet higher. There, he could welcome the Patrol—but not here. And Lars wouldn't be likely to know the uniform of the Forest Patrol. It just might work out, sooner than he had expected.
"Ready?" Lars nodded, saving his wind. Simon took the lead threading his way through the trees. His long life in the mountains had taught him that usually the easiest and quickest way to make time was to crisscross the slope, not walking or climbing directly up, but following the easiest lay of the land that led upward. Again, he knew this valley. Once a startled deer leaped from almost underfoot. Simon waited impatiently while Lars, wide-eyed, watched its bounding course.
They were both breathing hard, sweating, in the chill mountain air. The sun was well down behind the western peaks, but reflecting brilliance from the snowcapped eastern range. The valley was in shadow as they finally came to a road. Simon stopped momentarily, looked both ways, listened. Nothing but the wind in the trees, singing the song of the high pines as it wafted the perfume of ponderosa to their nostrils.
"Over there," said Simon, pointing to the darkening trees across the road.
"How much farther?" Lars made out a side road leading off the paved highway.
"Quarter mile." Simon stepped out of the forest. "Stick close to me—real close. Don't get farther back than three feet; traps."
They entered the side road, which appeared to be a simple turnaround. Simon strode confidently across, stepped out to the fall of a ditch beyond. Lars, immediately in his wake, had an eerie sense of walking on air when he looked into the pseudo-ditch of the fake turnaround. They passed completely through apparent trees, bushes; a boulder of granite turned out just as passable. Through the boulder, and a gravel drive led to a house, long and low and dark just made out in the gloom. Lars felt an unease; Simon spoke.
"Stay close—closer. Look to your left."
Lars looked; a small tube emplaced in the rocks was methodically tracking them.
"Laser," Simon explained laconically. "Got it puzzled—two of us, and it can't fire because I'm too close. If you were alone, though . . ." No need for Simon to finish.
Lars got the import. The unreal woods; the weapons; all tuned to Simon's body. If Simon left, Lars would be a prisoner.
"All clear, now." Simon cut short his wondering.
They were at the circle drive, inside the neat boundary fence. Subdued lights came on lighting the path to the house, the landscaped yards, marking the helipad. A twin to the ship in which they had flown was outlined in the light.
Simon answered his look. "Live alone; keep a spare copter. Glad I did, now." He flung open the door and the living room foyer lighted. "Bath's that way, kitchen over there. You clean up, get something to eat. I've a little checking to do."
Abruptly, Simon froze. Above the sound of running water in the bathroom came the sound of a fluttering copter, above the house. Quickly, Simon made his way to the call box in the hall, waited. He turned down the volume when the screen lighted and a strong, tanned face over unmarked forest-green tunic came into view.
"Forest Patrol. Request permission to land and talk to you."
"Permission granted." Simon probed into the sides of picture, scanned the interior of the copter. The forester was alone. And young. He flipped off the switch just as Lars came into the hall.
"Trouble, Lars. Ever use a stunner?" Simon pulled a handgun from the drawer. "This has a variable beam—it's set to stun, not kill. If there's trouble, I just want to capture this visitor."
"I can use it," said Lars, frowning. "Think we've been trailed?"
"Maybe. Or it might be a stranger asking for directions. I'll go down and meet him. If I run my hand through my hair—like this—nail him. Then we can disarm him and question him later." Simon led Lars to a recess just outside the door, a shadowed nook. "He won't see you from here." Simon started down the walk.
The copter landed, the forest green gleaming in the groundlight. A lithe, tuniced man leaped to the ground, adjusted harness and sword, and strode toward Simon. Heart pounding, Simon calculated the distance, the angle. The forester opened his mouth to speak, and Simon ran his hand through his hair. The stun beam flashed dull and wavery through the air, enfolded the green-clad man in a golden aura, then flicked off as the forester fell to the ground. Good thing uniforms differed, different regions! And that Lars was tired, confused, and rushed!
"Did I do all right?"
"Fine." Simon took the stunner from Lars, who was staring at the man on the walk. "Now, carry him to my copter."
Lars started for the fallen form, stopped abruptly and swung around to Simon. "I thought you wanted to—"
Simon fired; the golden aura surrounded Lars, and the boy crumpled on top of the forester. Simon sighed. Now he'd have to carry both to the copter. But he didn't dare take a chance. Simon was tired, and Lars was young—and a hurled blade was as fast as a stun beam.
Well, Halon, I've got the two bodies, he thought. Now to get a bundle of credits from the house—and to make a telecall.
Simon loaded the two unconscious bodies into his ship, then, panting from the exertion, went to the green forestry craft. It took some time to locate the flight-recorder, that marked time, direction, and flight of the craft. Simon tossed it out of the copter. He set the autopilot for a western bearing, high enough to clear the surrounding peaks but not those in the rising ranges to the west.
Starting the motors, he waited until the craft was lifting, then leaped to the ground. The forest ship rose lightless into the dark, and shortly even its sound was gone.
The flight to the city was into a growing bowl of light, a single light from the distance that on nearing turned into individual flashing lights of signs, the brilliance of street lighting, and the movements of vehicles. Red and green lights filled the air in a constant stream of aircraft. Checking his bearings, Simon dropped from the fast level to slow, sought out the parking lot near Halon's office. Landed, he checked to make sure his unwilling passengers were secure, then, setting the safeguards on his ship, made his way down the street.
"You again." The doctor was in a dressing gown; as Simon stepped in past him he caught the lingering of perfume. Apparently, he was spoiling the doctor's evening.
"You said to come back when I had—" Simon broke off at Halon's motion.
Halon crossed into another room, closed the door behind him. Listening intently, Simon could hear the sound of low, urgent voices; then the closing of a door. In a moment Halon reappeared, a frown on his face.
"Where are they?"
"In my copter—in the parking lot."
"Right out in public?" Halon's puffy face whitened. "Get out of here—you must be insane! I can't afford to have them found, and you connected to me ..."
"Just zip up your tunic, Doc. It was your idea from the start. You figure how to get them in here." He waited while Halon thought.
"All right. Just behind the office, there's an emergency pad. I am a doctor, after all. You bring them in, then go park in the lot again. I'll be waiting with auto-stretchers. It will look like an emergency, if anyone is spying." Halon looked at Simon. "I've the spyshield on, in here; had it on when you came. You know, you spoiled the evening."
"Wait 'til you seep what I've got," Simon grinned thinly. "It'll make up for a thousand nights."
It was short work to bring the copter to the landing pad, discreetly illumined with the emergency flashers, and Simon parked the copter back in the lot. When he returned, he found Halon sliding the forester into a deep-freeze cubicle. Simon raised an eyebrow.
"I'll need help on him—and I don't think you could do it." Simon had to agree.
Just before Halon gave him the anesthetic, Simon had a thought. "Halon, just make sure the boy's brain goes into this body."
"What? That's ridiculous, Simon. Why—"
"Who'd believe him, if he talked? Besides, it'll give him a few months of life—if he lasts that long. I'll drop him off in the forest—a long way out.
If he's found alive, he's just another crazy old bum; if he dies, it'll look natural."
As Simon faded out, on the table, his last thoughts were of Halon's tricking him. But in the past . . . Blackness closed in.
Lars woke up, uncomprehending. Bright sun glinted on waxy bull-pine needles; the scent of the forest filled the chill of the air. He raised a hand uncertainly, caught sight of it, held it rigid. Gray of skin, stretched tight across the bone; blue of age in the heavy fingernails. His brain recoiled; then the truth sank home. He began screaming.
Cain hit the building force field with one shoulder, impact like that of hitting a brick wall. His tunic ripped from the compression; he felt the field building as he forced through, the sensations of atoms trying to wall one part of his body from the other. The shortsword was torn from his hand; then he burst through. Not pausing, he hurled himself at the center heavy. With one hand he hurled the man full onto the lunging sword of another; the two bowled over a third. Cain brought, his dagger in under the thrust of the one on his right, buried the dagger to the hilt in the man's chest: As the heavy slumped, Cain caught his falling sword, whirling light as a cat to face the fifth.
So Levitt would cage him, chain him like an animal! Then, he'd be an animal the Guild had never seen! As his sword bit deep into the heavy, he glanced toward the Guildmaster, in time to see a wall panel sliding closed. Levitt was gone! Borland leaned idly against the wall, watching narrowly, taking no part. Raging, Cain swept toward the two who had been tumbled to the floor. They were on their feet, now, the sword of one red with blood of the man Cain had hurled aside. Cain gave them no time to fence; like a whirlwind he was on them, reddened steel flashing, beating down their swords, driving through to flesh. The last heavy took a step backward. Cain dropped his sword, came in under the man's guard, lifted him and hurled him against the wall. The real-wood wall splintered; smoke spurted as the man's body shorted hidden electronic wires, then dropped to the floor. With a bound Cain was at the panel Levitt had gone through, feeling for the catch.
"No use, Cain," Borland's even tone brought him back to reality. "I tried—he's blocked the panel."
"You're with me?"
"Yes." Borland met the ice-gaze. "After this, I have to be." Levitt would remember that Borland had stayed aloof from the battle; Borland would be marked for death. And, Cain remembered, Borland had always disliked the role of heavy.
"There's a way out." The heavy Guildmaster desk, an affair of solid oak, weighing well over three hundred pounds, met Cain's gaze. Muscles writhed, twisted through torn tunic as he heaved it overhead, balanced it, and started at a trot toward the wall panel. Borland's eyes widened as Cain bunched his muscles, then with all his great strength hurled the desk. The panel crumpled as cardboard before a driven golf ball, and the way was clear.
"One minute." Smoke was acrid in the room, now; the shorted circuits had begun an electrical fire. The force field had shorted out. Cain made his way through the swirling smoke, retrieved the pouch torn from his belt, and rejoined Borland. Outside the panel, the smoke had not yet penetrated to the escape-stair, leading to the roof deck. Cain cleared his lungs, breathed deeply. Followed by Borland he raced upwards, found the roof scuttle locked. He was drawing back for his second lunge at the unyielding barrier when Borland caught up, panting.
"Here," Borland handed a strip of metal to Cain. Cain slipped it into the slot; the radiations activated the lock and the door swung open. Wind swept the roof deck, used as a copter pad. Far down the line a copter was warming up, rotors turning slowly. It was Levitt's ship; just maybe—Cain burst into speed as the ship began to lift, gathering height as Cain neared. A desperate leap; his fingers touched the landing skid, caught, then slipped off. Cain dropped back to the deck.
"Duck, Cain!" Borland's voice was urgent, above the wind. A stream of forbidden bullets tore into the deck where Cain had been. He was under a parked craft, shielded from the line of fire. Then the Guild ship was gone, fading into the complex swarm of traffic over the city.
"We'd better get out of here," Borland came up, panting. "There'll be a swarm of firemen here, shortly."
Cain nodded, animal rage gone, now, but for the sullen hatred of Levitt buried in his mind. He had come in peace, to offer a possible solution to the clash of Stroud's work with Guild money. Should the Guild protect Stroud, further his work, murder would cease and the results would benefit not only man but bring legitimate money into Guild coffers. Now, he must eliminate Levitt—and, the Guild. Briefly, as they floated down the gray-shaft to an obscure street some fifty stories below, Cain told of his search for Lars; the fact that the search had taken him to the medical area, and the story of a possible flight to the southwest. Borland listened while he steered Cain into an automat and dialed meals for both.
"Then I'd say, let's finish finding Lars." Borland ate slowly, while Cain tore at his food. "I've a copter armed and equipped with the latest electronic gear—and if he didn't go clear off the continent I think we can find him."
"Levitt," the word was flat.
"He can wait. He had nothing to do with Lars—I'd of known. Nor did the Guild."
"Borland, how'd you ever get into this?" Cain wolfed down the last of the meal, studied, without seeming to, the members of the crowd drifting by on the auto-walk.
"Might ask you the same, but it would probably take longer." Borland laughed. "Well, I liked ancient history, taught it. And being brought up in this era, where the sword had come back to its own, I naturally studied the art of fencing, and all I could about the ancient methods of fighting. In time, I became a competent swordsman."
"An understatement," Cain interjected.
"One of the college alumni offered to finance me at the four-year gladitorial contest. As you know, of the whole Olympics, there's only one medal in that event." Borland paused, soberly, thinking. Cain had been fascinated, yet repelled, by the gladiatorial games. The best swordsmen of the world were pitted against each other; the point system was based on blood. The winner of a match was seldom unscathed; the loser, dead or dying.
"Well, about the fourth match—you know how long the eliminations take—I was sick of it. But I had to go on. The senselessness of it wasn't nearly as bad as the crowds, screaming for blood. A Roman holiday, for sure." Borland chewed on the last of his syntha-steak, reflectively.
"I went through the rest as in a dream, and won. Instead of dragging it out, I usually finished my opponent in from thirty seconds to a minute. Unfortunately, most of them died; I tried only to wound, but they bled to death. Medical attention isn't for the losers, in the games."
"Why didn't you go back to teaching? Any college—"
"Any college would have nothing to do with me. I was a professional killer, now. It seemed every half-drunk with a penknife challenged me. I had to eat, so I took an offer to work as a heavy." Borland looked at Cain. "Now: what do you have to offer?"
"Death, quite probably. Or, alternatively, life. Life for mankind."
"Sold. My ship's not far. I'm fairly sure Levitt doesn't even know it exists." He rose. "Should we go?"
Originally a four-place job, the ship had had three of the seats removed, their places filled with electronic gear. Cain crouched in front of a scanner as Borland flew over the medical center, then eased upward into a medium-speed level, bearing southwest. Cain noticed his yawn.
"Why don't you lie down in the aisle; get some sleep. I'll take over from here."
"How about you?"
"I'm good for two-three more nights; then I'll get a catnap."
The sun was breaking through the gray of the east as Cain slid into the pilot seat, swung the scanner for an easy view. They were past the limits of the metropolis, now; the mountains were becoming more rugged. Anything of importance could be better seen on the large scanner. Cain lifted the craft high in the air. For something like two hours, he cruised slowly, then slanted down for a look at the ground.
"Find something?" The change in flight had wakened Borland.
"Maybe. Broken trees—looks like an explosion, in that canyon, not too long ago."
"Only a day or so old," Borland studied the screen.
"Could be Lars, only that's from a clean nuclear blast. Information I had he was on an ordinary ship."
"Then maybe it was the free-lance copter; it was atomic." Borland worked a while with his equipment, shook his head. "Nothing the size of a man alive, down there."
"We can always come back here. I'll keep this bearing a while longer."
Borland nodded and was asleep again before the craft had lifted peak-high.
With his attention on the flight and the screen, Cain still put another part of his mind to work on the curious problem of humans. Himself, reconstructed and drastically changed by Stroud, he did not consider a member of the race of man; he was closer akin to the cheetahs. But Borland: probably an excellent teacher, but forced into killing and the traffic in parts of the human body. How many men, he wondered, had a real chance to use their talents? Man had to work out its own destiny. On the other hand, Cain could be the aberrant factor that would allow Stroud to set mankind on a course other than murder. Abruptly weary of the complexities of the problem, Cain automatically piloted and watched the screen.
"Going down."
Some two hours later Cain's words brought Borland upright, staring at the screen. A man was making his way in the direction of the city. He was moving slowly, in a straight line, and a sheer cliff rose in front of him. Borland ran up the magnification. "Looks beat."
The man was old. Now and then, he stumbled; regaining his balance, he headed the same course.
Cain feathered to a whisper, dropped the ship into the clearing behind the man. For a moment, the ancient looked at them, turned, tried to run, and fell over a log.
"All right, old-timer," Borland was gentle. "We want to help."
"Eighty—eighty years too late!" Suddenly, the figure in Borland's arms was sobbing. Cain took in the stained garments, worn with woods and underbrush; then abruptly stepped forward, ran a finger through the gray hair, traced a circle around the skull. Ice eyes looked at Borland; then Cain was at the ship, returned with a flask of water and a packet of food concentrate.
"Here." Gently he forced the man's head back; noted the gray skin of age under the weatherbeaten brown; forced the man to swallow. He took the water away, and the man looked at him with rheumy, bloodshot eyes. It couldn't be, but—
"Don't talk now. Another drink; chew on this; then talk." To Borland, he said, "We've found Lars."
"Lars? I thought Lars was young—"
"I'm Lars." The ancient spoke around the food. "Brain, anyway. Body . . . body belongs to a man named Simon. He—" Lars choked, broke into a fit of coughing. Finally he steadied, took a drink of water. "When I got to the city, I checked in at the manifest desk, then called a cab. I wanted to get to a scrambler-phone, but the cabby let me out on a side street and took off. Three silver-tunics attacked me." Slowly, he recounted what had happened. "So—Simon has my body, and another lifetime ahead of him. I'm due for death, in a short time; this body can't last long."
"We'll get your body back," Cain said.
Borland had been listening in horror. Killing for parts was bad enough; but what kind of a fiend would do this?
"We'll start with Halon," Borland said grimly.
"No." Lars spoke. “Go back to the blast area—once there, I can guide you to Simon's . . . my . . . place." At the doubt on Borland's face, he went on. "I can always return where I've once been. Once at the hideout, this body of Kester's will be the entry key. And he is bound to come back.
"All we have to do is wait."
Simon Kester, still full of dream-dust, left Madame Kelso's realm of pleasure and swayed down the auto-walk toward the parking ramp. His youth, newly found in Lars's young body, had given him a night he had never thought to live again. The credits he had lavishly spent promised an open door on his return. Now, back to his home and rest; then, with more money, he would return. He had a lifetime to live again. With the wisdom acquired in one, he would have no trouble acquiring even more wealth than he had.
"Never drink when on the dreamy," he giggled as he climbed into the copter, pulling a flask from his pouch and tilting it up. "Fine for old men—but this body can take it!" Already, he thought, as he set the autopilot and headed into traffic, his brain was feeling younger, thinking younger. Have to check on Halonsay in a couple of months. See how fast that strong forester's body would get soft. As the copter automatically feathered, dropped to the landing pad in front of his house, Simon took another drink from his bottle, laughed foolishly. That little brunette, now—maybe he'd bring her back, next time. She'd wanted to come now. But maybe he'd find someone better, next trip.
Simon stood up unsteadily, opened the door. Something wrong with the automatic mechanism—he'd have to fix that. He dropped to the ground.
As Simon's craft came in for a landing, Lars rested the stun-gun against the door frame. Behind him, in the house, Cain and Borland watched. Lars forced himself to relax. When Simon—in Lars's body—got to the walk, then all that remained would be to fly to Dr. Stroud and have this enormity righted. And, perhaps, Stroud could do something for Simon. After all, Simon could have disposed of Lars's brain, as Halon did with the forester's. Lars tensed.
He watched as his body stood wavering in the door of the copter, drop to the ground to sprawl, then stand unsteadily. Unnoticed, in the bushes, a slim pencil of metal pointed, focused. Relays, clicked; there was a minute trace of Kester radiation from the entity by the copter. But a stronger and almost total Kester radiation came from the house. There, the computer concluded that even though the copter had given the correct landing signals, the being that emerged was not Kester. The lazer drew on inexhaustible atomics; the beam enveloped Simon-Lars, outlining the body for a moment in brilliance, then winked out. There was not even a vapor left in the air where a moment before had been a living man. At the door, Cain reached up, pressed a nerve center at the back of the neck, and caught Lars as he crumpled.
"Borland, bring a sedative." Cain injected it carefully into the arm of the unconscious man, injecting slowly, feeling for pulse and watching respiration. Finally, satisfied, he laid the old body gently on the couch in the living room.
"Why'd you do that?" Borland was curious.
"Lars has been through enough. He was hoping to get his own body back; then it was utterly, completely, destroyed. Before his mind could react to the shock, I made him unconscious."
"But when he wakes up? Won't he have to face it sometime?"
"Not if he can live through a couple of hours of sedation. The brain, even a few cells of the brain, alive, are the man. Not the body. The brain contains Lars. And Stroud can build a new body from the brain. In the rebuilding, the memory will be there of this occurrence, but it can be lessened in importance." Cain looked at Borland.
"You're the technician. Why don't you re-set these traps to admit just the two of us? You and I? This might make us a good retreat, some day."
Borland nodded, left. Cain watched the rhythmic rise and fall of Lars's chest. Lars would be all right. Nothing, now, to stop him from finding Levitt. Of course, he would have to deal with the Guild—but Levitt was the end-aim.
It promised good hunting.
"All done." Borland was back. Cain picked up the unconscious form and they went together into the bright mountain sunshine.